


from the fire we rise

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avunculicide, Cousin Incest, Dark!Jon Snow, F/M, but the targs still won, morally grey decision making, rhaegar and lyanna both died, you decide what you think of his actions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 22:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15301116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: In another world, perhaps Jon would have been the heir to the throne. In this world, his father died on the trident, his mother in childbirth, no witnesses to their union.In this world, Jon is just the bastard prince, and in this world he still wantsmore.





	from the fire we rise

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the dark!Jon Snow event on tumblr.

This is how it starts.

“You’d be a better king,” Sansa gasps against Jon’s mouth, her fingers tugging at his laces, pulling him closer. 

Jon scoffs. “Of course I would,” he bites back, dragging his thumb across the ridge of her collarbone. Sansa shudders against him, tangles her fingers in his hair. Her skirts are heavy against his legs. Jon aches to lift them, touch her in ways she hasn’t yet allowed him. He simply strokes her collar again.

“You  _ should _ be king,” Sansa amends, those blue eyes staring,  _ probing _ into his.

Jon wants to kiss her quiet. To be two people, kissing in a hidden alcove for the precious minutes before the guards come back. But then he considers her words, and quirks a brow. “I’m listening,” he tells his cousin, and the smile he gets in return is blinding.

  
  
  


He’s always been  _ ambitious _ . 

Jon likes to believe his ambition is an innate characteristic of his, but he’s older now and doesn’t need to lie to himself to feel better. Jon knows that he pushed himself so hard for so long because he was a bastard--a little boy trying to prove himself to his mad, ailing grandfather.

It had been no use, by the end. His grandfather only ever loved Viserys. 

In another world, perhaps Jon would have been the heir to the throne. In this world, his father died on the trident, his mother in childbirth, no witnesses to their union. A raving septon had told King Aerys shortly after Jon’s birth that he’d  _ married _ Rhaegar and Lyanna, and that Jon was the trueborn heir to the throne. 

He’d been burned alive for that, his words whispered to Jon years later by Jaime Lannister. 

_ Trueborn heir _ , a vicious voice in Jon’s head whispered. Was it a wonder, then, that Jon’s jealousy had festered? Even if the septon’s words were a lie, Jon knows that Viserys is a bad king, cruel. Perhaps Jon would not resent him so if his brother Aegon were still alive, but Aegon and Rhaenys had died in the final Targaryen victory against the rebels, smothered by the handmaid sent to tend to them. They are the last ones left, Jon and Viserys.

Well, almost.

Hardly any of the court has seen Daenerys since the king sent her, at eleven, to the Maidenvault. “To protect her from the lechers at court,” Viserys had said to Jon grandly, only a day after his coronation. “My little sister must grow up with no fear of men pawing at her dresses, the way my dear mother did. When we marry, she will be pure, untouched by any other man.” 

Jon, at the age of twelve, hadn’t understood why Daenerys had been sent away, locked in the Maidenvault. She’d been his playmate, his confidant for longer than he’d even remembered. All her ladies were packed away as well, even his cousin Sansa, only nine years old herself. 

Viserys clearly hadn’t expected any danger from Jon, because it only took a few days of begging--and being kept in his rooms, with no food--for him to allow Jon to visit his aunt in her imprisonment.

  
  
  


 

Viserys has an eye for beautiful things, Jon knows this much. His eyes linger hungrily on Lady Margaery every time he drags Jon with him for a visit to the Maidenvault. He’s touched Daenerys inappropriately too many times, claimed that as her future husband it was his  _ right _ , and she could not refuse him. His mistresses come and leave as often as the moon turns, and they are lucky if they are alive when they go. 

Lately, Viserys’s eyes tend to linger on Jon’s cousin. It’s hardly surprising when Sansa tells him.

“He kissed me today,” Sansa tells Jon, desperate. “ _ Kissed  _ me. He said that after he marries Daenerys she will be queen in name but  _ I _ will be his queen of choice. He means to make me his mistress, he said.”

Anger boils in his chest, but Jon forces it down. “He won’t,” Jon tells her, all quiet rage. Daenerys has been frightened by the magnitude of his hatred before, but Sansa just grips Jon’s hands closer, lets him shove her against the wall and kiss his uncle’s touches away. Some days he thinks Sansa is truly the only one here who understands him.

  
  
  
  


His father’s wife is almost a ghost in the keep. Jon cannot remember how long it has been since the last time the court saw Princess Elia, although she’d been thin and weak even then, her face empty. King Aerys had kept her imprisoned to ensure Dorne’s loyalty, and Viserys could hardly be bothered changing their arrangements upon his coronation. The loss of her children had broken something in her, Ser Jaime had told Jon once, clenching his hand on the pommel of his sword. It was best to leave her alone, he’d continued. No use in prolonging her suffering.

If there was anything Viserys loved, it was to prolong suffering. 

It is on the anniversary of her children’s death that Viserys calls for a private meal among the four of them, playing this sick dance Jon’s grandfather had started years ago when he’d brought Elia before the court, threw the bodies of her dead children into the flames. “ _ They are no true dragons _ ,” he’d exclaimed. “ _ A dragon does not burn _ !”

According to the whispers, Elia had wept bitter tears that day, but not since.

It is an eerie feeling for three people sitting at a table to know that the fourth is going to die. Elia, blank as she keeps her face, holds her eyes on Jon’s face a moment longer than is necessary, grabs Daenerys’s hand in greeting tighter than usual. Daenerys, for her part, is a silver princess in the candlelight, her hair brushed out and shining softly, her white gown shimmering, crystals sewn into the skirts. 

Viserys is oblivious, of course. The tension around the table is thick, but he thinks it is in fear of him. Jon can see his uncle relish in it, when he taunts him, or tells Daenerys what their wedding night will be like. When he turns to Elia, finally, and twists the knife deeper in her pain, and brings up her children.

“You may not remember,” Elia says, surprising Viserys. She rarely speaks to him, and her voice is rough from disuse. “When you were a child, you and Rhaenys used to play quite a bit.” She spoons a bit of cream from her plate, although Jon knows she will not eat it. “Your father forbade it, of course, but you loved her enough that you thrashed and yelled until he allowed you to play together.” Elia’s eyes are haunting, when Jon looks over. Daenerys’s knuckles are white against her silverware, lips tight. 

Viserys seems to be at a loss for words. “I don’t remember those silly things,” he says finally, his jaw tight. “And I like you better silent,  _ Princess _ .”

“You know,” Jon muses, standing. “I like you better silent as well, Viserys.”

In his hand is his knife. Viserys’s eyes light on it immediately, and the rage on his face appears instantly. “You wouldn’t dare,” he hisses. “Guard, sit my nephew down and hold him there. You will regret this,” he warns.

The guard makes no such move. Ser Jaime and his two gold cloaks do not move at all, in fact, other than to look over at Jon.

“Leave the room,” Jon commands them, voice hard as steel. At once, they do. 

It’s the first time Jon sees fear creep into Viserys’s eyes. Good. He’s been afraid of his uncle for too long. It’s good to see that fear reflected, for once.

Viserys makes a grab for his knife, but Jon is already there, his blade at his uncle’s throat.

“If you kill me,” Viserys spits, “You’ll be a kinslayer! And a kingslayer besides! Cursed by gods and men!”

Jon leans in, digs the edge in a little deeper. “As you always say, uncle,” he whispers, “I’m not a real Targaryen.”  _ And bastards are cursed by gods and men already _ .

Daenerys appears at Jon’s side. She’s trembling, but keeps her nerve. 

“Don’t forget to check for weapons,” Elia says, and finally brings her spoon to her mouth. Jon sees her eyes close for a moment, perhaps to steady herself. They’ve all waited so long for this moment. 

It’s almost over.

“Dany,” Viserys pleads, “Dany, please.”

Daenerys bites her lip, but says nothing, just shakes her head.

Jon is shaking, too, when she finishes checking him, but it is with anticipation, not fear. Daenerys pulls out the dagger from his hip, and steps away.

“We’ve lived too long under you,” Jon says, and his voice is unsteady, adrenaline rushing through him. Jon has never killed a man before, but this feels  _ right _ . “Under your reign of terror.”

Viserys laughs at that, absurdly, a hysterical edge to his voice. “I kept you  _ alive _ ,” he tells Jon. “When my father wanted to burn you in your crib I  _ saved _ you. I kept you fed, clothed as a Prince of the realm, and this is your repayment?” Viserys cackles, although Jon sees him shaking.

Daenerys begins to cry, softly, but keeps her eyes on her brother even as Jon drags his steel across his throat. Elia spoons another bit of cream into her mouth, eyes hard.

It feels too fast. For a moment, Jon needs  _ more _ \--Viserys has tormented him for nearly twenty years, after all, his death should be slow--but then he throws the knife onto the table and presses his hands into his uncle’s throat, gets blood on them. They have to finish this mummer’s farce, after all. 

There is blood across Daenerys’s face, when she sits back down. Her beautiful white dress is ruined. Nothing will get those stains out.

Jon opens the door. “Bring in the kitchen boy,” he says. They all have their parts to play.

  
  
  


 

The boy is executed within a week, and nearly all of King’s Landing comes to see the would-be kingslayer. He’s gagged and chained, a boy of nearly sixteen who had been caught raping when Jon began hatching this scheme. Watching him hang is easier than Jon thought it would be. This whole thing feels easier than he’d thought, something Jon doesn’t know if he should be relieved for or not. 

Sansa is dressed beautifully, and the pendant at her throat glimmers when she approaches him, a beautiful blue rose that Jon commissioned for her. 

“I am so sorry for your loss,” Sansa says, and she’s become an accomplished liar during her time here, hasn’t she? But Jon sees the truth, the giddiness behind her stone mask, the exuberance at being  _ outside _ , not locked in the Maidenvault.

Jon’s own mask is not yet so solid-- _ yet _ . He offers Sansa his elbow when the royal party makes for the Sept, where the coronation will be held. She takes it gingerly, every bit the dignified lady, composed and subdued in the crowd of mourners.

_ \--Viserys’s blood not yet cleaned from under his fingernails, Sansa’s gasps, caught halfway up her throat, muffled before they’re heard. Her slick warmth, finally, when she allows Jon to pull up her skirts. The scratches on his back, still sore a week later. This is the woman he wants, this woman who understands him, one that needs what he needs-- _

They are getting stares, the other lords and ladies curious at their closeness, their familiarity. Jon kisses her cheek before he climbs the steps. 

_ Mine _ , the kiss says. The lords avert their gazes. 

Daenerys and Princess Elia await him within the sept. They are dry eyed, the two of them, though Daenerys’s eyes are red. 

" _ Thank you,” she’d said, still shaking. “Thank you, thank you. For what you’ve done for me.” _

The High Septon waits while Jon is prepared for the coronation. Outside, he can hear the crowd, waiting for him, while the heavy Targaryen cloak is draped on his shoulders. The sigil is inverted, black dragons on red, and Jon thinks it fits him. 

He is crowned in the light of the seven, thousands of his people standing beneath him. When the time comes to don his crown, Daenerys is the one to do so, handing over her right as a trueborn Targaryen to him. He’d let her think the idea was hers, that he was more fit to rule than she, and relief loosens the knot in his chest when the crown is finally atop his brow. 

And then he is King Jon Targaryen--first of his name.

  
  
  
  


 

“You’ve always been ambitious,” Elia says, when the night has ended. Now that her vengeance is done, her eyes are cold again. 

“Ambition is not a fault,” Jon replies. 

“No,” she muses. “Your father was more dutiful than ambitious. He would rather have allowed a madman to continue ruling than be a kinslayer.” She regards him, slowly. “But it isn’t duty that drives you, is it?” 

For a moment, there is silence between them, and  _ understanding. _ She knows he didn’t kill Viserys only to save Daenerys from a marriage that would have killed her. Jon wanted to be king. He wanted what Viserys had.

He wanted Viserys to suffer.

There are different shades to madness. Jon wonders if this is his.

“No,” Jon answers, although no words are needed. “Not entirely.”

Elia’s jaw works, her eyes unreadable. When she speaks, it is only to say, “Rhaegar could have used some of your ambition, then. Perhaps, if he’d thought a bit more about himself, my children would have been alive.” Elia gives him a pointed smile, painful as a knife. 

She takes her leave shortly, carrying her ghosts with her.

Sansa is in his bedchamber when he arrives, dressed only in one of Jon’s robes. Her red hair shines in the candlelight, and she is  _ alive _ , more so than he’s ever seen before.

“My King,” she greets, a wide smile breaking across her face. It works better than any seduction. Those words set his blood alight.

“My Queen,” Jon says, and it is a promise. One he intends to keep with fire and blood.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please comment/review <3


End file.
